Trial By Fire
by estrafalaria103
Summary: Blaine is an eager, inexperienced assistant district attorney. When his big break comes as a second chair on the Hummel murder trial, he couldn't be more ecstatic - except that he doubts the guilt of the defendant, Burt's younger son, Kurt Hummel.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, I really, really shouldn't be doing this. Need to finish Concrete Jungle, and the newly started Song of a White Dragon, and a half dozen other fics. But this one just jumped up and bit me while I was at the gym today. I couldn't stop myself. Please don't hate me.**

Blaine's awakened at three in the morning by the shrill scream of his cell phone. He blinks blearily for a moment, trying to brush aside the cobwebs of sleep. He thinks, at first, that it might be his alarm clock – but that's not right, the alarm clock plays soothing ocean sounds in the morning and – the phone goes off again, insistent and angry.

It's enough to pull him fully awake, and he leans over to grab it. It's probably just Sebastian – the guy just doesn't take no for an answer, and for some reason seems unable to grasp the concept that Blaine is not down for booty calls with an _ex_. He remembers, at the very last moment, to check the caller id before hanging up and going back to sleep. It's an unlisted number. Curious, Blaine clicks it on and raises it to his ear.

"'lo?" he manages to growl out, his voice husky and unused. He clears his throat and tries again. "Hello?"

"Blaine Anderson?"

The voice is familiar, but he can't quite place it. "Speaking."

"Hey, man, it's Mike Chang." Blaine furrows his brow. He knows Mike, of course – everyone knows Mike, he's one of the friendliest guys on the force. Whenever he's called into the D.A.'s office to report on a case he brings a box of donuts and stays to chat with all the attorneys. Their receptionist, Tina, is more than a little in love with him. Blaine's never worked a case with him – Mike's one of the upper level detectives, whereas he is still stuck with juveniles and D.V., four years into the job – but they're friendly enough. He wonders why Mike would be calling him at three in the morning.

"What can I do for you?" Blaine asks, as polite as can be. His mother would be so proud, he thinks drolly.

"We got a big case down here, 332 Lex," Mike says, his tone brusque and sharp. "Jonesy wants someone from the D.A.'s office down here as soon as possible. We've got definite arson, probable murder."  
Blaine frowns. He just barely stops himself from asking why he's being called. He is on-call tonight, but he's never, in four years, actually been called. All the officers know who works what beat, and they're more likely to just call the attorney who will end up prosecuting the case than the lawyer on-call. The Lexington area is in Santana's district, and she's always eager to get her hands on big-time cases. He finds it hard to believe that Mike hadn't called her, first.

"I can be down there in twenty," Blaine says. That's cutting it close – it's a fifteen minute drive to the nicer area of Arlington, and he has to throw on a suit. Still, there's a rushing feeling in his head, that if he doesn't grab this case someone else will. This could be his chance – the first break of getting out of the wifebeaters and vindictive baby mamas to prosecuting real criminals, to really cleaning up the streets. Mike grunts an assent and hangs up.

For once, Blaine doesn't agonize over what to wear. He just grabs his suit from the day before, discarded over a dressing room chair. He doesn't do his hair, just throws some gel into it and runs his hands through it, preying that he doesn't look like some kind of mad scientist as he grabs his car keys and runs out the door. He glances at the clock, and realizes that he'll have to speed to make it there in twenty. How funny would it be, he muses, if he got pulled over by a cop en route to a crime scene.

It's not hard to find the house, even in the dark, with barely there streetlamps for guidance. What looks like two dozen people are milling in the middle of the road, kept back by bright yellow police tape and exhausted looking firemen. Blaine can spot the flashing red and blue sirens of at least police cars, including the charger, and two firetrucks. The house itself is still smoldering, though the fire is out. Blaine considers honking his horn to make his way through the throng of onlookers, but settles for just parking on the side of the road and pressing his way through.

He's busy trying to catch sight of Mike Chang when a hand grabs his sleeve. He turns his head, surprised to see a short, pretty blond girl. "Excuse me," she says, her voice surprisingly throaty for someone so petite. "Are you Blaine Anderson?"

"Y-yes," Blaine says, surprised to be noticed. "How did you -  
The girl smiles sweetly.

"It's my business to know," she says. "A little early for the D.A.'s office to be looking into an innocent fire, isn't it?"

"I"

"Shame about Mr. Hummel, though," the girl continues. "Are you looking to charge someone with this? Was it murder, or an accident? Any suspects?"

"Excuse me," Blaine says, shouldering her aside as politely as possible and climbing over the crime tape. He doesn't know who the girl is, though she speaks with the practiced ease of a journalist. It's disconcerting that she knows more about what's going on than he does. He glances around, seeing a number of officers, but none that he recognizes. He pulls out his phone to call Chang when he hears a familiar voice.

"Do _not_ take them into custody. In fact, specifically state that you are _not_ taking them into custody. Make sure there are two officers present at all times – smart ones, no idiots. I don't want this case bungled because of some fuck-up from the police department."

Blaine walks around the charger. He should be surprised to see Santana here – after all, it's unheard of to call two attorneys for a single crime. He's not terribly surprised, however – Santana is one of the hotshots in the office, an up-and-comer. Even if she hadn't gotten Chang's call, she probably would have shown up anyway – a magicial prosecutor's sixth sense that he just doesn't possess.

She's clearly surprised to see him, though, full dark eyebrows rising nearly to her hairline. She frowns at him, and Blaine realizes, once again without any surprise, that she has full make-up on. Unlike him, she's wearing a different outfit from yesterday, perfectly ironed. Her hair is pulled back into a severe, no-nonsense bun, and she's wearing one of her pairs of man-killing, six inch stilettos. She looks the part.

"Blanderson," she greets him, popping a piece of gum loudly in his face. "What are you doing here?"

"I called him."

Blaine is saved from answering when Mike Chang walks around the corner. Unlike Santana, he doesn't look fresh and awake – there are deep bags under his eyes, and he looks about ready to fall asleep on his feet. He's on day patrol right now. Blaine knows, because just yesterday they'd gone out for drinks after work. He wonders why the young detective has also, clearly been roused from sleep for the arson.

Santana rolls her eyes. "God, Chang, when I told you to call someone, I meant someone competent. Wes, or Smythe. Hell, even Schuester. What the fuck made you decide to call Anderson?"

"He's on the one on-duty tonight," Chang says. He offers a weary smile to Blaine, who returns it uncertainly. Santana sighs.

"_Dios mio_," she mutters, casting her eyes heavenward. "Well, gotta work with what I'm given. Listen, Blanderson, I need you to ride back to the stationhouse with Jonesy. They're trying to bring in Hummel's son – the one who didn't somehow manage to burn his face off. If they can find the wife they'll bring her in, too. I want them interrogated, all taped. Make sure that they are told that they can leave, make sure they follow procedure, yadda yadda. Do _not_ arraign them tonight, unless someone's a flight risk. This is the big one, Anderson. Don't fuck up tonight and you might get to second chair a real trial."

Blaine just nods his head. He still doesn't know what's going on – something to do with Congressman Hummel, obviously, and questioning families. He knows criminal procedure, though, knows what Santana wants done.

"Are the family members suspects?" he asks. Santana actually groans this time.

"God, you are green, aren't you? Family is always a suspect, Blanderson." She turns and snaps her fingers. A large black woman walks over, a broad smile on her face.

"Sup, Satan?" she asks. Even Santana can't keep her angry mask on.

"Jonesy, this is Blanderson. He's gonna ride with you back to the precinct to question the family. If they don't come in, go ahead and detour to their places. You'll have to find the moron in the hospital."

"Aw, c'mon, Satan, I don't need an escort," the woman groans. "I know how to do my job."

"I know," Santana says. "But we can _not_ fuck this up. I trust you, but not every goon who works for you."

The detective considers, and then shrugs. "Fair enough." She sticks out a hand toward Blaine. "Hey, handsome. Looks like you and me are working the graveyard shift tonight. My name's Mercedes Jones."

"Blaine Anderson," he says, shaking her hand. He vaguely remembers her from the office – she's usually partnered up with Mike Chang, but where he visits the male attorneys, she's known for gossiping with the women. Mercedes grins, and pulls her keys out of her pocket.

"I'm driving," she says. "I've got the Charger."

"Damn, girl, you been driving that thing all week," Santana whistles appreciatively. "I thought you guys are supposed to trade off."

"Over my damn body," Mercedes snorts. "I worked my ass off for these keys, and I'm keeping them. Come on, cutie, you're riding with me."

Blaine briefly considers protesting about leaving his own car, but instead hands off his keys to a grateful Mike Chang, who'd clearly been worried about being stranded. Blaine has to hurry a little to keep up with Mercedes, who whoops a little when she reaches the Charger and climbs inside. Blaine can't help but smile a little – it really is an amazing car.

Mercedes is literally cooing to it as she pulls away from the house. Blaine glances back critically. It's had to tell in the dark – he'd really wanted to be able to explore a little. He's never been on a crime scene, not since his first orientation at the office, anyway. He's still not entirely certain that they're investigating a crime. There's no doubt that there was a fire – a portion of the roof on the stately colonial has fallen in, windows are busted out, and there are still tendrils of smoke threading up to block out the stars. But it doesn't look catastrophic – the fire never spread to the nearby houses, and the lower level of the Hummel home actually looks untouched.

"So. . ."

Mercedes glances at him out the corner of her eye. "Oh, white boy don't know what's going on!" she exclaims in clear delight. Blaine blushes a little, glad that the darkness covers the red tinge of his skin.

"I just pulled in about five minutes ago," he confesses. He doesn't add that only an hour before that he'd been sound asleep, tucked away under an old afghan his grandmother had knit.

It turns out that Mercedes is more than glad to talk, and she happily fills him in on the way to the stationhouse. They'd gotten a call at about 1 a.m. about a fire at Congressman Hummel's house. The fire department and ambulances had gotten their first, the squad cars a little after. Because Hummel was a public figure, they'd brought more personnel than usual – but everyone still thought it was just an ordinary fire.

The fire had been concentrated on the second story, though, in the bedroom. After putting out the blaze, a quick look around had been enough to determine that there were no candles, or errant curling irons – no clues as to what had started the fire. There was, however, a slight odor of gasoline. Blaine gasps at that point in the story.

"So it's definitely arson, then?"

"_Definitely_," Mercedes agrees.

There had been two victims – Congressman Hummel, and his oldest son, Finn. Hummel had been dead by the time the firefighters managed to pull him out, but Finn had been rushed to the emergency room.

"Here's where it gets interesting," Mercedes says, her voice almost afire with some kind of sick fascination. Blaine just feels a little nauseous – the detective is clearly invigorated by all the details, but he almost wishes that he were back with his D.V. cases, where a backhanded slap was usually as bad as it got. "Finn's got a couple of cuts to his arm, and at least one to his chest – ambulance took him outta there before we found out anything else. And Hummel's en route to get an autopsy, obviously, but word is that he was stabbed, too."

"Murder," Blaine whispers.

"Murder, arson, attempt. . .who knows what else we'll find digging into this," Mercedes says. "Sylvester's gonna push for the death penalty on this one, and you better believe that if we get someone convicted, that sucker's headed straight to the chair."

"Any suspects?"

"Not yet," Mercedes admits. "Satan – er, Santana – will question the family, because it's what she _does_. But it's pretty obvious that the older boy was trying to get his dad _out_ of the fire. The other son and the wife weren't at home. There's always motive in these cases, especially where there's life insurance, but I'm more interested in digging up a little dirt, first."

Blaine nods his head, agreeing. The Arlington P.D. is known for sometimes jumping to conclusions and unfortunately Sue Sylvester, the new district attorney, is usually willing to go along with them. Couple that with mandatory prosecution for certain crimes, and the number of nulle pros'ed cases has skyrocketed. He's glad to hear that one of the detectives on point for this is a little more cautious – especially where Congressman Hummel is concerned.

Mercedes puts on the radio for the last few miles of the drive, and Blaine sits back for a moment, trying to put the case together in his mind. He doesn't know a lot about Congressman Hummel – knows that he's one of the representatives from Ohio, originally ran on a platform of arts and the education and fiscal conservatism. In recent years he's spoken out in favor of gay rights, against capital punishment, for the environment, and in support of the military. It's possible that the arson was politically motivated, but Congressman Hummel is not the biggest bill-writer. He'll co-sponsor a bill, but he's just not the kind of guy who sits at an office and researches.

It probably was the family, he realizes with a sinking feeling. A large life insurance policy, guaranteed government pension for the widow, an inheritance for the sons. . .he's worked as a prosecutor long enough that he's seen the cases before. When big names die, affluent people, it's usually because of the family.

They pull in to the precinct office. Mercedes grins as she hops out of the car.

"What are you so happy about?" he can't help but ask.

"Oh, white boy, you don't even _know_," she says. "Didn't you hear the radio? They found the younger son, and they're bringing him in right now. This is when things get _fun_."


	2. Chapter 2

12/30/2010

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! I'm really enjoying writing this so far. I feel like John Grisham! Also, as a note: Yes, I am aware that Virginia has Commonwealth Attorneys rather than District Attorneys. We're going to ignore that for the sake of the story, since D.A. sounds way more badass.**

Blaine and Mercedes seat themselves behind the thick, bulletproof plexiglass. Blaine's been here before – Mike's shown him the interrogation rooms whenever he's had to walk over to the station to give a presentation or be debriefed by one of the detectives. He's never sat on this side, before. It's strange, looking into the stark room, knowing that he can see and hear everything, but nobody can see him.

"Rory and Sugar are going to do the questioning," Mercedes informs him. "They're young. Unintimidating. They'll make it seem like just an easy conversation."

"They're more likely to mess up though, right?" Blaine guesses. Mercedes just grins toothily.

"That's why we're here."

Sugar walks in first, and Blaine almost does a doubletake. She's just this side of homely, with a two long nose and too closely set of eyes. Still, she carries herself well, and he thinks that our of the unflattering police uniform she might be almost pretty. She gestures to somebody behind her.

Blaine can only assume that the first man to walk in is the suspect. He tries to remember the Hummel kids name, but can't quite come up with it. He looks a little shell-shocked, light eyes wide in his face, lower lip trembling a little. He's fully dressed, which explains why it took a while to bring him in, and his hair is perfectly coifed. Blaine subconsciously lifts one hand to his own hair – it's crusted in strange places, and he can tell that the gel isn't evenly distributed. He winces a little.

Hummel sits down on the other side of the long, metal table, crosses his legs daintily, and leans forward a little. He'll shift around a lot, Blaine thinks. The table is hard and unforgiving, bolted to the floor and unyielding, and the chairs aren't exactly built for comfort, either. Sugar sits down across from him, and he can't see her face anymore, but he assumes she's smiling. A final man enters, hair all over the place. His face is plain but honest, and he sits down in the final remaining chair. Mercedes leans forward and presses a button, filling their viewing room with a strange static.

"Thank you for coming in," Sugar says, her voice a little nasally but not entirely unpleasant. "We're going to tape this entire conversation, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind," Kurt says. Blaine starts a little. His voice is high and fluting – much higher than is customary for a man. And it isn't like Kurt is tiny – he's tall, probably taller than Blaine, and though he doesn't look terribly muscular, he's not scrawny by any means, either.

"Great," Sugar says. "Also, I just want to remind you that you're not in custody. You're free to leave at any time. We asked you if you would like to come in, just to make things easier for the department, and you agreed voluntarily."

"Yes. . .you already said all of this. . ." Kurt sounds a little confused.

"It's just for the tape," Rory hastens to assure him. "So our bosses know we've been on the up and up."

"Now then," Sugar says. "We just want to ask you a few questions. Are you comfortable? Can we get you anything to drink first?"

"I just found out that my dad died," Kurt says, "and that I'm being questioned by the police. With all due respect, I'm _far_ from comfortable."

"Of course," Sugar says smoothly.

"We're very sorry for your loss," Rory adds.

"Can we just. . .can we just get on with this?" Kurt asks, almost wearily. He glances up at the ceiling.

"He's not showing too much devastation over his father's loss," Mercedes mutters under her breath. Blaine just leans forward.

"Yes. Now then, Kurt, can you think of anything that might have started the fire? Did your father like to burn candles, or. . ."

Kurt cuts her off mid-sentence. "No, my dad's never been into that kind of thing." He pauses for a moment, almost thoughtfully. "And Carol always preferred diffusers. There was nothing. . if there was a fire, then somebody set it."

"Well in that case, can you think of anyone who disliked your father? Anyone who would have a reason to. . ."

"No, no," Kurt says dismissively. "My dad was. . .my dad was. . ." he pauses for a moment, his lower lip trembling. His eyes remain dry. "My dad was amazing," he continues. "Everybody loved him, he was good to everyone. He didn't have any enemies."

"Mmhmm," Sugar says, writing on her notepad. Blaine cranes a little, and realizes that she's just doodling random hearts on the paper. "And your older brother, Finn. He was there. . .did he and your father have a good relationship?"

"The best," Kurt says. "Finn was just down from Ohio, visiting. He manages my dad's garage, back in Lima. Dad adopted him when we were both just sixteen."

"And what about you?" Rory asks. "Did you and your father have a good relationship?"

"I. . ." Kurt glares at him. "What are you insinuating? I _loved_ my father. He was the best man I've ever known."

"We saw your car parked at the house," Sugar mentions. Blaine notices the way that Kurt tenses up. Sugar is just doodling notes, but Mercedes is intently noting all reactions, writing her thoughts on how Blaine is behaving. In case they need her to testify in court, Blaine realizes, and feels a rush of gratitude for the detective, taking her job so seriously. "You weren't there. Where were you?"

"I was. . .I was. . ." Kurt pauses again, and even through the blurred pane of plexiglass, Blaine can tell that his gaze is all venom and poison. "I don't have to tell you that. You think that I'm a suspect, don't you? You think that I might have. . .I don't want to talk to you anymore."

Rory coughs a little, and stands up. "Excuse me a moment," he says, gesturing toward his throat. "Just a little. . .I'm going to get something to drink, I'll be right back."

"Okay," Sugar says, placatingly. "We won't talk about that. And like we said earlier, you're free to leave whenever you want. Could you just answer some more questions for us about your father's job, though. . .it would be very helpful."

Kurt's back is still stiff, but he nods, short, jerky bursts of head movement. Mercedes stands, touches Blaine's shoulder, and motions toward the door. He obediently follows her out to the hallway, cinder blocks and yellow linoleum. Rory is standing out there, waiting for them.

"He's a flight risk," Rory says lowly. "No family to speak of, other than his father and brother. The wife is only a stepmom – never adopted him or nothing. No job that we know of, said that he didn't have anyone to call when we asked him – didn't even sound interested in going to see his brother in the hospital. You want us to book him?"

Mercedes chews on her lip and glances at Blaine. He ignores her for a moment, turning to stare at a spider, slowly making its way down the cinderblocks.

If they charge him tonight, if they want to keep him, they'll have to schedule an arraignemnt, have to press charges immediately. They're locked in, then, to the 75 days. It will become public, the media will know about it. . .Santana will be _pissed_. Besides, it's hard to see how they even have probable cause to book him – his car was at the site, but that's it.

Mercedes is apparently thinking along the same thoughts, shaking her head slowly. "No. . ." she says. "We don't have any evidence, nothing to. . ."

"He's the sole heir in the will," Rory cuts in. "I mean, Carole will get half, obviously, but Kurt inherits everything else. He's a beneficiary on the life insurance policy. He's got motive."

Mercedes is still shaking her head. "It's not enough," she says. "Where was he picked up?"

"At the house," Rory says. "We had just left to try and find him when he came walking up. Dressed as fine as you see him."

Mercedes frowns and grabs at her cell phone. "I'll call Lopez," she says. "See if they've picked up anything from the crime scene."

She wanders a little ways down the hall and begins talking quietly into the phone. Blaine continues to watch the spider. It's slowly inched it's way up the dull, white-washed cinderblock, nearly to the ceiling. He wonders if it will try to walk upside down.

If they don't charge Kurt – if they let him go, and he does run – it shouldn't be hard to find him. He can't collect his inheritance, or the life insurance money without being present in Virginia. Isn't that enough to keep him here?

There's a quick, harsh striking sound as Mercedes marches back toward them, forecefully slamming her phone shut (Blaine briefly wonders when she'll give in to touchscreen technology). "They found a small gasoline stain in the back of his car – probably from the last week – and an empty propane tank in his closet. Lopez says to go ahead and book him."

"No!" Blaine's voice rings out down the hallway, and he squirms a little uncomfortably when both Mercedes and Rory turn to look at him. "Let me. . .let me talk to him. She said not to do anything if he's not a flight risk."

"Didn't you hear Rory?" Mercedes asks. "He _is_ a risk."

Blaine shakes his head, stubbornly. "Just let me talk to him."

Rory sighs, and reaches down toward his belt, where his holster is. Blaine takes an involuntary step back. He's held a gun before – with his father, it would have been impossible not to – but he's only fired one at the range. He shakes his head, and Mercedes clearly agrees, walking up and whacking Rory upside the head.

"Where're your brains, boy?" she asks. "White boy over there hasn't been trained – we are not risking putting a weapon into a suspect's hands."

"I'll be fine," Blaine says, trying not to sound indignant at their clear lack of faith in him. Neither of them look convinced. "Sugar's still in there? Right? And she's armed?"

This seems to calm them down a little. Rory points toward the door he'd just walked out of, and Mercedes shrugs. Blaine takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and puts his hand to the doorknob. He can do this, he _knows_ that he can do this. Most of the other attorneys assume that domestic violence is just battered women and mildly abusive men, but that's far from the truth. Most of the defendant's that Blaine's dealt with have been involved with gangs, or drug cartels, or are former felons. Violence is a cycle, and men who are willing to hit their women are willing to do a whole lot of worse things to people who don't agree with them. Blaine isn't worried about his safety.

He's worried that he won't be able to get Kurt Hummel to say what he so desperately needs him to say.

The room is even smaller than it looks through the plexiglass, barely enough room for the table and three chairs, and no room to maneuver. He wonders why the officers bring weapons in – it seems like pure suicide to fire anything off in the small, cramped quarters. Blaine sits down in the one vacant chair, even as Kurt Hummel is standing up.

"Oh, hello. . ." Sugar says, sounding a little uncertain. "Who are. . ."

"Hi," Blaine says softly. He spreads his hands wide apart, palms up. He's trying to look unthreatening, trying to show that he's not bearing any weapons. He keeps his eyes wide open, trusting. Sebastian used to laugh at him when he'd open his eyes up, joke that he looked like a Disney prince, or a kicked puppy, and nothing like a badass prosecutor.

For the first time in about three months, Blaine desperately hopes that the dick was right about something.

Kurt looks at him uncertainly, glances at the door again, and then back at Blaine. "Hi," he says finally, still sounding uncertain.

"Kurt, my name is Blaine. And I am so, _so_ sorry for your loss."

Kurt nods and bites his lower lip. He crosses his arms across his chest. Blaine sighs.

"Listen. I just have a couple. . .no more than five. . .questions for you. If you can answer them for me, I'll drive you straight over to the hospital."

Kurt frowns, his upper lip pulling up into a slight frown. "Why would I want to go there?"

"Isn't. . .I thought. . .your brother is at the hospital, isn't he?"

Kurt just shrugs. "He's just my stepbrother. We're not close. We actually used to hate each other, in high school." Blaine hears the words coming out of the other man's mouth, but he also catches the way he's dropping his hands and is playing nervously with his own fingers. He notices the way the eyelids are fluttering, a little too quickly. He glances at Sugar. She nods.

"Well. I could take you home, instead."

"No. I should. . .I should go to the hospital. Dad would have. . .five questions?"

"No more," Blaine says firmly. Kurt nods, more to himself than to Blaine, and sits.

"Where do you work, Kurt?"

"At Mayberry Square," Kurt says softly. "At a little boutique dress shop. It's just me and Wade. We do some tailoring, sell some vintage pieces."  
"Okay, good," Blaine says gently. "Is Wade going to be okay without you for a bit? You'll need to take some time off to deal with this."

"Oh," Kurt seems a little surprised, and cocks his head. "I hadn't. . .I didn't think about that. I don't know. He might be able to get a friend to come in and sub but it's just the two of us. I can't just. . .not show up." The distrustful look is suddenly in his eyes again. "You're not arresting me, are you?"

"No, no," Blaine spreads his hands again. There's something in his gut telling him to reach out and grab Kurt's hand. _Don't, don't, no_ his mind insists, but as usual he's too impulsive. His fingers curl around the other man's wrist, featherlight. Kurt gasps and glances down at where their hands overlap, olive against porcelein, but he doesn't pull away. "I just meant with the funeral, and. . .once again, I'm sorry. Do you have any pets?"

"Maisie," Kurt says instantly. "She's a shih tzu. Dad hated her, said she wasn't a really dog, more just a yappy rat, but. . ."

"Okay," Blaine nods. His spirits are lifting a little. Sugar leans back in her chair. Blaine considers carefully. He'd promised Kurt no more than five questions, and he doesn't want to fail in that vow, but he's only got two questions left. He winces a little. It's a horrible question to ask of someone who's just lost a loved one, completely inappropriate, but. . .

"Who will be taking care of the funeral arrangements?"

Kurt stares at him, blankly. He blinks twice.

"I just. . .your father was a very well-respected man. Will it be a state funeral, or a private one?"

"I'll take care of it," Kurt says, barely a whisper. "My father was a congressman, but he was still a person above all that. He wasn't a figurehead. I'm sure Carole will help, but heaven knows she won't be that much use. She was wearing stonewashed denim when I introduced them and. . ." Kurt cuts himself off mid-ramble, and swallows heavily. "That was five questions," he says. "I would like to leave now."

"Of course," Blaine says. He stands up, pulling his hand away from Kurt's in the process. His chair makes an aggravatingly harsh sound as it drags against the linoleum. He opens the door, and gestures the other man through.

It's not until he's in the hallway that Blaine realizes, a little hopelessly, that he doesn't have his car. Kurt doesn't wait for him, though, just walks determinedly down the hallway. Blaine glances up at Mercedes, who shoots him a brief smile and shrugs. Blaine smiles back, and hurries after the other man. Kurt, for his part, pauses just before the door outside, and turns to look at Blaine. He looks almost ethereal in this light, the fluorescent lightening stealing what little color there is to his face, washing out his skin and his hair, until only his eyes are blazing. He holds out his hand, fingers curled around something. For one brief, heart-rending second Blaine thinks that it's a gun.

"You said that you would drive, right?" Kurt says. Blaine nods and reaches out to take the keys. "That's good," Kurt says. "Because I'm not sure that I should be driving right now."

He turns his face away the moment that they get in the car, and Blaine is silent as he turns the ignition. He can hear the other man taken in loud, short breaths, and it's impossible not to see the shoulders heaving. He wants to reach out and comfort the other man, wants to assure him that everything will be okay.

But Kurt is a suspect in an ongoing investigation, and based on what Santana told Mercedes, he's soon to be the main suspect. Things won't be okay – not any time soon, at least.

They ride to the hospital in silence, accompanied only by the soundless descent of Kurt's tears.

**A/N: Thanks for reading!**

**COMING SOON: Blaine meets with the D.A., one Sue Sylvester. Sebastian Smythe, A.D.A. makes his first appearance. Santana looks smoking**


	3. Chapter 3

12/30/2010

**A/N: Phew, we are flying here. Thanks again for all of the reviews! Warning to everyone, though: story is not pure fluff. It's based off a real murder case from the 1990s that did not have a happy ending. No white knights here, unfortunately. Still, I hope you keep reading and enjoy! **

"What were you thinking? Seriously? You're just gallivanting around, giving rides to suspects and. . .you're not even on the same team, here, Blanderson!"

Blaine winces and holds his phone a little further away, trying not to burst an eardrum as Santana screeches at him from back at their office. He glances over at the clock. It's 8 in the morning – it's hard to believe that this whole mess only started five hours ago. He taps one foot on the hospital ground, and glances longingly over at the small coffeeshop. The workers had arrived half an hour ago, and he'd been promised coffee within fifteen minutes. He's still waiting.

"I thought it would be a good opportunity to see the other brother – Finn," Blaine says.

"Well, that was just stupid," Santana seethes. "I told you the kid was banged up – I'll bet he's still in surgery, isn't he."

"He just came out."

"Well, fuck." That shuts Santana up for about fifteen seconds. "Whatever. He'll be doped up for another hour or so. I'll send some officers over at 9:30. You need to get your ass back here. Sylvester wants to talk to you." Blaine's about to protest, claim that he needs to change and argue in favor of a shower when Santana begins to speak again. "Don't even think about going home. Chang was nice enough to offer to drive your sorry ass back here – in your car which you _stupidly_ left at a _crime scene_ – before he's off for the day."

"But"

He doesn't get the opportunity to complete the sentence before she's hung up, a loud dial tone ringing in his ear. He sighs heavily and puts the phone back in his pocket. He sits back down in his stiff, unyielding chair. Above him, a tv is playing the morning news, although thankfully it's been muted. A fish tank stands to his left. It reminds him of a dentist office more than a waiting room.

When they'd arrived at the hotel, Kurt had instantly been issued past the triage doors. A doctor had been found to discuss his brother's condition. Blaine had just stood awkwardly aside. He had no police badge to flash to gain him admittance, and telling them that he was an assistant district attorney had gotten him no further. He'd spoken with the on-duty officers, also waiting on Finn's surgery, but they didn't have much to share either. He'd been stabbed in the chest twice, they told him, and his arms had been torn into. Smoke inhalation, burns on his hands and face. One of the cops, the older one with the fringe of rapidly graying orange hair, had gleefully mentioned that one eyebrow had been singed off.

That was all they knew.

The door opens with a soft swish, and Blaine look up. He has to blink for a moment – Arlington Co is a small, dingy hospital – it's close enough to Fairfax that most people just head over to the bigger, better equipped ER at that monstrosity. Arlington hasn't even traded in the heavy, wooden doors for sliding glass ones, though at leat their ambulance bay has been better outfitted. When the door opens, filtering in early morning sunlight, it's glaringly bright against the orange overhead bulbs.

Mike Chang enters. He usually walks with a dancer's grace, long limbs in perfect proportion, feet soundless against carpet, wood, or tile. Today, Blaine notices, that grace is almost absent. His shoulders are slumped forward, hands thrust almost angrily into deep pockets. His dark eyes are sunken in, his skin sallow. It's probably all just lack of sleep.

"Hey," Blaine says softly. "You okay?"

Mike looks at him with a blank face and a shrug. "Just tired," he says, rubbing listlessly at his eyes. "It's a rough night. We found the widow – she was working a 24 hour shift at Urgent Care. Spent the rest of the night with her. She was pretty broken up."

Blaine winces.

"Yeah," Mike says, his lips finally quirking up in a half smile. "Comes with the job, I guess. Come on, let's get you back to the office. You're not gonna change first?"

There's a low blow. Mike is always comfortably dressed, wearing the uniform only when necessary, and other than that in Target and Walmart by-blows. If he's commenting on Blaine's wrinkled appearance, it's beyond bad. Besides which, he smells like hospital, and a little like smoke and. . .but then he thinks about Santana's angry clipped tone, and the idea of Sue Sylvester becoming irate at tardiness and. . .it's definitely worth a day of second hand clothing rather than dealing with either of them in a blind rage.

"I'm fine," Blaine says. "Still got my keys?

Mike holds them up playfully. "Took good care of your baby."

"Gimme those," Blaine laughs, reaching out and grabbing his keys back. His car isn't anything special – nothing as impressive as the squad Charger – but it's the first thing he bought for himself out of law school – the first thing he ever really bought himself, without using his dad's money. He's proud when he looks at it, the sleek black Civic. His brother mocked him for it, calling it a little girl's car, but that didn't take away any of the pride.

He drops Mike off first, despite the other man's protestations of wanting to walk. Blaine may have only gotten four hours of sleep, but he's pretty sure that the other man has been going for going straight for at least thirty hours. Besides, it's only an extra five minutes to his journey, and he pulls in to his designated parking spot at just 8:25. It's still technically five minutes early. Even Ms. Sylvester can't be too upset with that.

Still, no matter how many times he tries to reassure himself that it will all be fine, the elevator ride is pure torture. He wonders briefly if he should stop in at his own office before heading to the D.A.'s, but ultimately decides that there's no point. He could hang up his jacket, but all that would do was make it more obvious that he's still wearing yesterday's clothes. He doesn't even have his briefcase on him.

Instead he just walks straight to the corner office, waving absent-mindedly at Tina, who's dutifully turning on lights and unlocking bathroom doors. He takes a deep breath, quickly readjusts his tie, and walks in to the lion's den.

Santana is in there already, of course. She's standing, tapping one heel impatiently against the ground. Her hair is still up in the tight bun, not a single strand out of place. She looks the same as any other day, and if Blaine didn't know better, he would have never guessed she'd been up, prowling the streets in the early hours of the morning

Sue Sylvester, the Arlington District Attorney, is a whole different matter. She's older, for one thing, and cares far less about appearances, for another. Her blond, graying hair is cut short and blown back from her face, a near parody of men's slicked back hairstyles. She wears straight cut pants and blazer's with strong shoulder pads, as though to make up for a feminine silhouette. Blaine's never seen her in heels – even without them, she's two inches taller than him. Her eyes glitter this morning, two blue snake's eyes.

"Mr. Anderson, so glad you were finally able to take time out of your carefully regimented moisturizing routine to meet with us."

"I don't. . ." Blaine stops mid-sentence and drops his hands to his side. He doesn't know why he still tries, sometimes. After four year's in the office, he still isn't accustomed to Ms. Sylvester's frequent insults and barbs. "Santana said that you wanted to see him."

"Yes, Sandbags and I were just talking about you," Sue allows. She sits down behind her massive oaken desk – so big that Blaine's often wondered how she managed to fit it on the elevator, up the flights, around the corners, and into her office. Sebastian claims that she had a tree trunk put into the office via crane, and then handcarved the monstrosity herself. Blaine is pretty sure that Sebastian is full of shit, but there's still a little part of him that wonders. Sue kicks her feet up onto the desk. "Why aren't you two sitting?" she barks.

Blaine hurries to a chair, nearly landing on the arm in his haste to follow orders. Santana slinks over, instead, crossing at the ankles and curling up, pantherlike, in a big leather chair.

"Now then," Sylvester muses, threading her fingers together and peering thoughtfully at the ceiling. "We've got a Congressman murdered, probably by his own son. The wife isn't a suspect. . .she's got a foolproof alibi. Could be the older son – he was in the fire, but it's still possible he set it himself. My money's on the younger one, the girly little elf thing standing to inherit all that money."

"What about the stab wounds?" Blaine asks. Sylvester ignores him.

"Sandbags, you run the call log yet?"

"Just one, to a burn phone, around 11 am," Santana says smoothly. "Jonesy is gonna show it around to some of their CIs, see if anyone recognizes it. She's got men on the streets right now, checking to see if anything else happened that night."

Blaine clears his throat. "What about the stab wounds?" he says again.

"Good, good," Sylvester considers. "We'll want to keep hammering the Hummel boys, too. Goody two shoe morons from Ohio – one o them will break. Just make sure that they're not charged with anything."

Santana rolls her eyes but nods. Blaine tries one more time, hoping that third time is the charm.

"We should get forensics in to look at the blood spatter," he says. The other two women turn to look at him, and he shudders a little under their harsh, cold gazes.

"Why the fuck would we want to do that?" Santana asks. "We've got a fire to pin everything on."

"The. . ." Blaine blinks and tries again, speaking past the massive lump in his throat. "Both Finn and Congressman Hummel were stabbed, multiple times. I'd bet my life that the congressman was dead before the fire. The arson was just a cover up, to destroy any evidence. But if he was injured somewhere else – blood spatter can tell us if he fought back, how tall the attacker was. It won't tell us who the murderer is, but it might help us to figure out who it _isn't_."

They're looking at him with interest now. Feeling a little more confident, Blaine sits up taller and continues.

"Plus, Finn's a suspect now. I had a case, a couple of years ago, with a couple who stabbed one another. There's no doubt that the wife got the husband with a butcher's knife in the kitchen – they both admitted to that. She claimed it was self-defense, had a wound in her shoulder to offer up as evidence.

"We brought in a blood splatter expert, though, who looked at the blood in the bathroom, where the wife was allegedly attacked. Just drip stains, meaning that she was standing still, didn't struggle. It wasn't self-defense. She stabbed herself, to make it look like a defense, and then went after her husband."

"That's a touching story," Sylvester says drolly. "Now I know that if I ever want to murder one of my harem of lovers, I'll come up with a better alibi."

"What does this have to do with our case?" Santana asks. Blaine frowns, brow creasing.

"Finn was stabbed, too. But we need to make sure it's from the same man who attacked his father – so the splatter should show the entry site coming from the same direction – the same height of man should have been attacking. We want to make sure that Finn was really attacked – that his wounds aren't self-inflicted."

Sylvester smiles a little, shakes her head. "You are a sick fuck," she mutters. "Who the fuck comes up with that kind of plot? That is a twisted, convoluted mindfuck. Kid was covered, 60% of his body in burns. You think he did that to cover up a murder plot."

"I think if he set the fire, and it got a little out of control, he'd get burned, too."

For a minute he thinks that Sylvester is going to laugh him out of her office. Her lip keeps quirking up a little, and her shoulders are heaving. Santana, however, looks troubled.

"All right then," Sylvester says finally. "Let's get forensics in there. I don't think we need it in this case, but this one is gonna go National and I will not become a laughingstock." Blaine blinks.

"Wait. . ." he says uncertainly. "The feds aren't taking this one over?"

"Hell no," Sylvester says.

"But it's a public official. . ."

"Hon, they can get him tried in the Rocket Docket, in one of the district's with the highest conviction rate," Sylvester points out. "We'll have this guy hanging before he'd have gotten a preliminary hearing in federal court. We're keeping the case. Mores specifically, Sandbags is keeping the case. Hobbit, you'll second chair."

Santana groans. "Come on, Sue," she pleads. "You know this one is going to explode. Give me Wes, or Smythe. . .someone who will actually be _helpful_."

"Oh, Anderson will be helpful," Sylvester says. "More helpful than I think either of us know. First thing he's going to do is find the shitass little reporter who already got this case on front page."

She slams a newspaper down in front of them. It's just the Arlington Press, not exactly the most impressive newspaper around. The front page is a picture of the blaze from the night before – not impressive in and of itself. Every newspaper in the area is probably showing it, and the Associated Press is probably sending it out to newspapers across the country. It's the headline that grabs Blaine's attention.

Trial by Fire: Family Murder Draws D.A.'s Attention.

"Family murder?" Blaine can't help asking.

"Read it on your own time," Sylvester seethes. "The point is, some intrepid little weasel-nosed reporter has already scooped the story, and knows way more than any shit-faced journalist should. Santana will head up the investigation – your job is to shut down the media."

Blaine raises one eyebrow. "And just how am I supposed to do that?"

"You think I care? Pour rat poison in her martini, fuck her eyes out, waterboard her for all I care. Just make sure that news of our investigation doesn't get out. You've got a pretty face, Anderson. Use it."

With that, he's abruptly dismissed.

As much as he wants to immediately get to work on the Hummel case – it's his first Circuit court trial, after all – he also has other responsibilities that he needs to take care of. Namely, a DV docket call starting at ten. He glances at one of the hallway clocks, analog and ticking, as he hurries to his office. He offers a brief thanks to God that he always prepares docket calls the day ahead of time. Granted, he does so in case he gets stuck in traffic, but it serves the same function anyway.

He's going through the names, trying to decide on an order to call the cases as he walks into the office. He's so engrossed in trying to decide whether Mari will testify truthfully or redact her earlier claims of abuse that he doesn't immediately notice another presence in the office. In fact, he doesn't notice anyone is there until a pair of arms snake around his waist and warm breath is blown in his ear.

"Hello, beautiful."

Blaine sighs and shrugs his way free of the entangled arms. He doesn't even need to look back over his shoulder to know who was speaking. "What do you want, Sebastian?"

"You," Sebastian smirks. Blaine turns and stares at him with a level gaze. He learned a long time ago not to respond to the other man's taunts – any response, even a negative one, seems only to encourage him. After a second Sebastian shrugs and drops the act. "I heard your second chairing the big Congressman trial with Lopez."

"Yeah," Blaine says, tearing his eyes away. He glances around his office for the dozen case files that he knows should be lying on his desk. They're exactly where he left them, rubber banded together. He considers dumping them in his briefcase, but decides it will just take more time than it's worth. He scoops up the files, places them under his arm, and turns to leave. Sebastian's hand whips out, snakefast. Blaine tries not to jerk away when it fastens around his bicep.

"Be careful," Sebastian says. Blaine frowns, looking up into the other man's grey eyes. It's always frustrated him, how much taller Sebastian is. It probably just adds to his superiority complex. He smiles a little. "She's gonna steal that case right out from under your pretty, stumpy little legs."

Blaine rolls his eyes. "I'll see you later, Seb," he says, lifting the files a little. "Unless you want to join me for docket call?"

A short, staccato laugh answers that. "I did my time with the wifebeaters," he says, jovially enough. "No thanks. I'll take guns and drugs any day." He whistles a little as he walks off down the hallway.

**A/N: Thanks for reading!**

**COMING SOON: Blaine meets with intrepid reporter, Quinn Fabray. Santana speaks with blood spatter, DNA, fingerprinting, and all around everything expert Jesse st. James, and Kurt wonders if he should get himself a lawyer.**


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